Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten

by Allison Greer

The little girl sat very still for some time, taking in the woman’s words, formulating new regard.

  “The head that once was crowned with thorns

  Is crowned with glory now;

  A royal diadem adorns

  The mighty Victor’s brow.

  The highest place that heav’n affords

  Is His, is His by right;

  The King of kings, and Lord of lords

  And heaven’s eternal light.”

  Wm. H. Havergal Thomas Kelley

  Meggie remembered Clarence’s own beautiful baritone voice embracing the words of that much loved hymn.

  “Virgie. Virgie heard him . . . out in the back, puttering around in the yard, through the fence.”

  *

  Margaret and experts concur: Executive function abilities are shaped by both physical changes in the brain and by life experiences.

  24

  “One thing I’ll say to you, Meggie. I’ve never told another living soul—not even my parents, but I feel certain they’d agree one hundred percent. I’ve never been able to pull things together, to make things happen with any kind of success at all. When I hear people say, ‘You make your own luck,’ I just sit. My brain goes all jiggy. I sit with nothing to say because I’ve, simply, never been able to pull that off.

  “Like the time Carey and I decided to have a second wedding ceremony—just before the baby was born. Oh, I guess it was due in about three weeks—give or take a bit—if memory serves me correctly. I believe it was, actually, Carey’s idea, but I thought it would be so fine. He said now would be the perfect time since we’d soon have our hands full with the new baby and it would be so difficult to get away, what with diapers and feeding schedules, making sure the infant had a place to sleep without the mosquitoes biting, trying to synchronize the plans with the weather. He gave several other reasons for doing it, now.

  “I felt more in love with him than ever, knowing he cared so much for the baby’s welfare, knowing that he wanted to say his vows to me all over again and me to

  him—to recommit ourselves at such an important time in our lives. It would be a lovely thing to do.

  “Maybe I made too big a deal of it, ’cause I started going on and on about what we could do to make it an even bigger event, something we’d remember when we were an old married couple and the children were grown and gone. I planned to make myself a new maternity outfit. I guess my mistake was to tell him about it. I guess men aren’t really concerned with those kinds of things. Maybe it bogs them down in the humdrum, ’cause it really didn’t interest him much. He was watching TV. I thought it would be a good time to show him what I’d done, so I brought in the patterns and materials I’d bought that day.

  “I’d had such fun picking it all out. Took me quite some time to finally decide on the right colors. And, guess what—I settled on white. Go figure! The pants were a kind of capri-type, real cute, with the stretch panel at the tummy and I bought an ecru, linen fabric for them. I know it was a bit frivolous, using such a nice material for going to the woods, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, a celebration, our second wedding ceremony. That day could never possibly come, again.

  “And, the top of my outfit was cut to hang pretty low, like to mid-thigh. It was almost like a short dress with cap sleeves and a pretty, little tailored collar. My heart leapt when I saw that fabric on the bolt. I was so excited, I knew right away that was what I wanted. It’s crazy to get so visceral about a piece of cloth, don’t you think? But, that’s the way I am. My heart melted when I put the bolt of ecru against the gossamery material. It was

  like a white, filmy cobweb floating in the air. Kind of like those spider webs you see early in the morning spread out on the grass and weeds, all sparkly with dew and the early morning sun shining on them so gently. ’Course, I’d need a camisole to go under it since it was sheer, so I bought an ecru fabric liner for that. And, a really sweet ecru-on-white trim for the collar. I already had a pair of beige flats. It was all working out perfectly, Meggie. It was, actually, coming together!

  “I would have felt pretty extravagant about the entire purchase except that Mom and Dad had already given me my birthday money. It would pay for most of my outfit. Carey suggested we not mention the expenditure. He thought, in fact, it’d be nice to keep the entire event to ourselves, just enjoy our time together. And, soon we’d have our little child to hold. After that, we could tell whomever we wanted about our recommitment . . . and show our photos.

  “After I brought all my purchases out for Carey to see, I put them aside on the sofa and went over, sat in his lap, thanked him for coming up with the idea. He got up, suddenly—almost dumped me onto the floor—and went outside. Started working on his bike.

  “But, you know, Meggie, I could never figure Carey out, his moods, what he wanted, what was ok to do and what was not. It seemed, for the most part, I was always zigging with him when I should have zagged. And, we rarely laughed. Can’t think of one time when we both found something so hilariously cute or stunningly funny. I laughed all the time when I watched Johnny Carson. Johnny never failed to give me huge belly laughs, but

  Carey was never home for the Carson show. And, he probably wouldn’t have found it funny, anyway.

  *

  “Oh . . . I was going to tell you about the biker rally Carey, finally, agreed to take me to. I ding-donged him so about wanting to be a part of his motorcycle life that he took me—once. It was sometime in my fourth month. I don’t know how he felt about it, having my hard baby bump pressed against his back. I guess this was one time when I would have served myself well by staying at home. If he ever had reason to complain about how poorly I rode a bike, that was the time. The baby and I, probably, really threw his balance off and with quite a distance to go to get to the rally. But, he didn’t say much about it. Just very cold and distant. I think on an ordinary day I would have cramped his style. And, now, with being p.g., it was, probably, more than he could take around his biker buddies.

  “It didn’t have to be that way. I saw other women there pregnant, having a good time with their husbands and friends. It was just Carey’s take on the subject. It didn’t fit his idea of himself or the man he wanted to portray. I guess, on a scale from zero to ten with zero being the happiest I could ever possibly conceive of being and ten, the most miserable, I weighed in at fifteen. One of the few times I’ve ever hit top score. If I put my arm in his as we walked around, he’d remove it and commence to holding my hand, but soon he’d be doing that hand-holding thing he did so well where I was the

  only one holding hands. And, I’d drop the whole matter myself, and we’d be just two people who happened to be walking in the same direction.

  “People came up to Carey, really glad to see him. Sometimes, he’d introduce me to them, sometimes not. Sometimes it was couples, sometimes groups of men, single women. They were all dressed up in their biker gear, maybe old, tattered jeans, bandanas, denim jackets with things embroidered on them like: ‘Wenches Wrench, Too’ or ‘Harley Wench Bitch.’ Leather boots. Leather bracelets, tattoos. But, there were times, even though I had on my jeans, a nice plaid maternity blouse when I really felt uncomfortable. I did a little scoping, myself. What I was wearing wasn’t that much different from the other women, but, clearly, there was a difference. Something . . . I had no idea what.

  It was when I asked Carey to go with me to the restroom. I was feeling more than a little out of place, conspicuous and had no idea where the ladies’ facilities were. He got disgusted with me. Told me to find it for myself; I was a grown woman.

  “So, I took off—one direction was as good as the other—until I came to a booth with what appeared to be people in-the-know seated at it. The men were leaning back in their chairs, boots propped up on the table. They cordially pointed me in the right direction. I thanked them and wondered how people can be cordial and correct, yet, still,
make you feel like you don’t belong? However it’s done, they did it and quite well. And, as I approached the restroom, I noticed a group of women about my age huddled together. They were looking at me, looking me

  up and down, talking as they did, laughing. It was, for the most part, the looking, the glaring, the challenging way they stared that was discomfiting . . . like they were staring me down.

  “For a small second I thought they weren’t going to move from the door and let me pass, but, as I kept coming, they did—grudgingly. I kept thinking, ‘What have I done? What are you looking at? I’m here for a good time, just like you. There’s room for all of us.’ And, they had chrome all over their bodies—in their ears, noses, lips, on their wrists, necks, boots, jackets. One or two had tattoos. They all had really nice figures. Looked great in their jeans.

  “I used the restroom, was on my way out the door when two women I’d not seen, previously, started talking to me . . . very pretty, both of them.

  “One woman asked, ‘Aren’t you Carey Olftersen’s wife? He told us he was going to bring you, today.’

  “I said I was.

  “‘Are you having fun?’

  “‘Absolutely. It’s a new experience. Glad Carey brought me.’

  “‘He said you’re pregnant. How far along are you?’

  “‘In my fourth month.’

  “‘Aren’t you afraid of losing the baby riding on a hawg all that way?’

  “That took me a little off guard . . . didn’t think it was, particularly, polite; however, I replied, ‘I know it’s a concern, but books I read say pregnant women can, even, go horseback riding—if they’re accustomed to it.’ I, unconsciously, placed my hand on my abdomen, rubbing the stretched and itchy flesh, patted my little infant. My consolation.

  “‘Yeah,’ said one of the two. ‘That’s the problem . . . Carey says you don’t ride.’

  “As I started to leave the women, one of the two, under her breath, loud enough for me to hear, said, ‘He says you’re gullible, too.’

  “My heart melted. I felt so hurt . . . hurt and betrayed that my husband was telling perfect strangers such things about me, things he never gave me a clue he was thinking. I guess that was a belly-laugh moment for him and his friends. How did he think I was gullible? Had he been pulling pranks on me all along and I wanted so to believe he was a decent person, might even love me, that I failed to see reality when it was right in front of my eyes?

  “I started flying through all the moments in our short married life—flying like I was spinning a rolodex—all the out-of-the-ordinary things that happened. The time I fingered through the dried pinto beans, carefully, looking for debris, washed them in the colander under cool, clear water numerous times, put them in my big pot

  with a nice ham bone, salt, pepper, onions, bell pepper, a couple of beef bullion cubes and cooked them for hours. They smelled so good—one of those things I do well, Maggie—pinto beans with hot-water bread. You see . . . I can pull some things together.

  “It was a rare event: Carey, actually, sat down for dinner with me. I served his and my plates, carried them to the table where he sat. He took a bite. The beans weren’t quite right, needed more salt. He asked me to go get the salt from the kitchen.

  “Maggie, I took great pains cleaning those beans. I always do, but, when I took a bite, I came down on a small rock. It hurt so bad, cracked one of my back teeth. Since I was in my first month of pregnancy, I didn’t dare go to the dentist. Dental work would have required deadening and I refused to use any sort of chemicals that would hurt the baby.

  “Then, there was the time I slipped my foot into my shoe and was stuck in the toe by a carpet tack. I had just pulled those shoes off the night before. How a carpet tack got in it, I had no clue. Except to blame Carey. What kind of a person would do such a thing? I did not know, so I let it go.

  “I think the men in my life, actually, saw through my husband . . . actually felt sorry for me. Daddy would come over to our apartment just to visit with me a little while when Carey wasn’t home. We’d sit, have a cup of coffee or, if it were winter, a cup of tea. My daddy enjoyed a cup of hot tea in the winter time. One day we were sitting at the table. He took my hand in his and

  asked with wonder, ‘Where did you get such long fingers?’ Nobody in our family had fingers like mine and nobody in our family thought to wonder but Daddy.

  “He told me, ‘If you and the baby ever need a place to live, you’ll always have a place back home with us.’

  “And, my grandpop would come over. He told me, once to ‘ . . . let Carey go. If he wants to go off on his motorcycle, spend his time away from you, let him go. You stay here . . . here with us.’

  “But, Mother was different. Mother was the ‘Wither thou goest, I will go.’ kind of person—even though she herself never left the house or had to work. She was the ‘Just encourage Carey to be the best biker he can be.’ kind of person, although she would have died if my dad had brought a cycle home. Her voice overruled. And, I kept butting into Carey’s life when, clearly, that was the last thing he wanted.

  25

  I stay in the garden with Him

  thru the night that ’round me is falling.

  But, He wills me to go

  thru a voice filled with woe,

  a voice that to me is calling.

  And, He’ll walk with me.

  And, He’ll talk with me

  while He tells me I am His own.

  And, the joy that is there

  as He tarries with care,

  all others can surely be shown.

  adapted from

  C. Austin Miles

  While it was undertaken with great pains, no one could have labored more diligently with such intense joy as Rosie’s daddy. In his mind’s eye, he had planned where everything would go—Rosie’s little bed, the baby’s, the chest of drawers which baby and Rosie would share, Rosie’s vanity, the tiny book shelf. His layout of the room was determined by the size of the room, placement of

  closet door—all according to function and frequency of necessary access. However, all his plans were left to Rosie’s final approval after the baby came.

  Rosie would be getting her schooling from a visiting teacher. The dining room table would be fine for that purpose. But, her daddy wanted his daughter to have her own little desk—a place designated, specifically, for school work. As he watched her move through her day, it struck him that a quiet, set-aside place just for school would help her stay organized, decrease the looping back he’d seen her do over the past months. It and a matching 2-drawer filing cabinet were the only naturally stained wooden furniture in the room along with a little chair—a nice break from the other all-white, frilly pieces. He located a large wall calendar for Rosie to keep track of assignments and scheduled chores, attached a pencil sharpener to the top of the cabinet with a small wooden box to keep her pencils and erasures in, another box for Crayons and scissors and paste and, last, a clock with a nice, big face and numbers. Several types of paper were in one drawer. The other was for Rosie’s assignments. And, a sign with one and one-half inch letters which read, “Always Read Instructions” was to be attached to the wall behind the desk where Rosie would see it every day.

  And, Rosie’s daddy was forever troubleshooting.

  There were so many things Rosie did well, had no trouble with, such as taking her turn, waiting until the adult recognized her to speak, asking for help; but, she hadn’t had much chance to practice those skills with other children since coming to stay with him. She was fairly able to connect past experiences with present

  circumstances, to connect information. Coming up with new and original thought was not a strong suit of hers. Her daddy knew she was not adept at joining into groups of peers; although, she had no trouble at all at the nursing home. Everyone there considered her most engagi
ng and charming. She was not particularly skilled in evaluating ideas, although she took great pains to peruse and correct her own work . . . and very good at finishing her work on time, most of the time. She took however much time it required to complete a task . . . simply, conscientious and very desirous to please.

  She loved making plans for the baby, her room, her cooking, but her dad knew she hadn’t had much opportunity to be involved in brainstorming and making plans with children her own age. Ordinarily, he would have gotten her active in some sort of youth group, but with the baby, he wasn’t sure that would be possible. Maybe at church.

  He bought an old set of encyclopedia which they’d keep in the dining room, an out-of-date atlas and dictionary. He left a paper pad there for the homebound teacher to write assignments and directions for Rosie. And, after the baby came and life settled down, he and Rosie would sit together and make out a daily schedule—for her school work, her housework, for the baby. He, also, expected to set up regular visits to the library and get Rosie a card. And, of course, regular check-ups for the baby.

  Rosie wasn’t particularly good at judging how much time an activity would take or what size containers she needed to put leftovers away. Her dad was waiting to

  see how she told stories to the baby, what kinds of details she managed to incorporate, but she did love to sing, knew many lyrics by heart. And, she showed interest in playing the piano, although she’d not, yet, had occasion to sit at one. She had an uncanny way of remembering, exactly, the ingredients and amounts of any particular recipe and she loved to cook from scratch, not at all unlike her heavenly Father.

  3...“. . . things which are seen were not

  made of things which are visi-

  ble.” NKJV ™

  Hebrews 11:3

  {“You remember what experts said about Adolf Hitler . . . what is recounted for you in TOAD UNDER A HARROW? They say, when the listener accepted his premise, his reasoning was indisputable. It’s the same when believing in the Bible. There are folks who choose to believe the Book—or, at least, significant parts of it—is sheer fairytale. When one accepts their premise, the entire Book falls to pieces, and, they call God a liar since He says His entire word is true.